Sixty Odd Days of Christmas
A compilation of festive poetry from a selection of Sixty Odd Poets
Contents
Introduction - Mike O'Brien Winter Solstice - Alex Oliver Boxing Day - John Deighton Christmas Carols - John Deighton Chilblains - Ian Parks December 1988 - Tony Hitchcock 'Tis The Season - Tony Hitchcock Scrooge's Best Christmas Ever - Geoff Lowery Father Christmas Gets Arrested - Geoff Lowery Christmas - Christopher Matthews Man Of Frost - John Beal Doves - John Beal Sprouts are Versatile - John Wolf Snow Jam - John Wolf Adam & Eve - Philip Dawson Hammond Dark Procession - Gary Wells
Introduction by Mike O’Brien
When I started this Sixty Odd Poets site in late October, it was because I thought that it was a crying shame that I couldn’t find a single poem by John Beal online. I wanted to link to his work from a piece I had written, inspired by him, in a Hallowe’en version of my own site - Sixty Odd Poems.
Creating John’s page inspired me further, and I came to realise that there are a great many poets, who I know and admire, many of whom are difficult to find online and some who are a bit more accessible, who would also enjoy being ranked amongst the community of Sixty Odd Poets and available to the site’s developing readership.
The count of Odd Poets currently stands at five, with sufficient numbers waiting in the wings to double that number over coming weeks.
In October, the site’s first compilation page was created with a wider range of odd poets contributing their responses to a Wallace Stevens Poem, Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird. This was well received and gave me the idea of producing further compilation pages, starting with this Christmas edition, and to be followed by a New Year one next week.
I hope to feature many of the poets featured in these compilations in future pages of their own, as the ranks of Odd Poets swell.
If you have not been included so far, don’t despair, just drop me a line and we can work together on your page.
Meanwhile, I would like to say a big thank you to all readers and writers. Please enjoy these marvellous festive poems, and have a great Yuletide!
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Winter Solstice - Alex Oliver
A citrine moon like some Punchinello Judas ushers dark dawn - though the night goes on and on and on… beyond the blue and shadowy orbs and glittering distant twinkles December has come of age and the birch has spent her gold under sledge-slidden tears that snow sheds when the sun comes to smile The crow cries across the park like a wounded soul Through silver mist and golding clouds an azure sky is hid like the blue-white skin of the pitiful poor or puthering rich As we eat as we drink as we breath the universe passes through us It is the star that melts on your tongue the moon-bow that glitters in your eye it is river and rust gold and gloom and the weather's moods all swirled, beyond what we call shadow beyond what we call nothing beyond that confine that we call life or the universe eternity is merely the brain’s terminus and my head churns if I try to understand
Alex Oliver is a scrimping, saving class child who chose make-belief over reality and survived.
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Boxing Day - John Deighton
I descend into a room of shouting colours, familiar and yet strange and full. It’s early mid morning and still too early, my eyes long for something dull. The kitchen table is littered with left over food like a relief map of the Somme. The sink is loaded with used glasses and bottles lined all along the worktops. There is that awful decaying Christmas food smell clawing through the air and playing havoc with my hangover from hell. I put the kettle to work and in its tinsel skin I see the piercing Christmas tree lights, the nagging reminder that I forgot to switch them off before bed last night. I think about dealing with them and I make the coffee instead. I feel as rough as a dogs bottom but I am not as bad as her up in bed. < < <
Christmas Carols - John Deighton
It’s the place where no one grows old. Endowed with the gift of children eyes, to capture that love in our lives, driving away the dark December cold. Simple tunes trapped in a handful of bars. Drink in the sentimentality flying through those sweet memories of the babe lying underneath that star. The old melodies egg excitement on. An intolerable delay waiting for that special day, then the magic of the music is all gone.
John Deighton is a poet and actor from East Yorkshire
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Chilblains - Ian Parks
They told me I'd get chilblains if I played out in the cold but it was Christmas and I didn't care. Someone said you only felt the pain when you came back inside out of the darkness and the freezing air to warm your fingers in the fire's glow. The name was much more threatening than the thing itself as if the chilblains were alive - a sort of goblin or a wicked elf that pinched your knuckles black and blue. After the sledging and the fights, the building of the men of snow I went home to to the woodchip walls looped with paper chains, the baubles hanging from a plastic tree and felt the chilblains burn. That the hot pain stabs in its own time. is a lesson I still have to learn.
Ian Parks runs Read to Write. He recently featured in Sixty Odd Poets. His Selected Poems 1983 - 2023 were published this year.
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December 1988 - Tony Hitchcock
It was beginning to look like Christmas This was my last week in Scotland Before the new year Called at Fraser’s to drop off present Made my way back to the car With snowflakes gently trickling down Lovely drive down the A 74 M You could feel the peace on earth Christmas songs on the radio Singing along with Steve Wright Back in Yorkshire, suited and booted Then the drive down to St Albans For a festive dinner with work mates Then the news came in Airliner exploded over the A 74 at Lockerbie Where I had just travelled, some hours before Peace on earth shattered < < <
‘Tis the Season - Tony Hitchcock
You see all the world go by Down the lanes where the shopping is frantic Piling their baskets as high as they can Half price everything and twenty percent on top The spirit is still in the bottle Wise men are outside the shops The infant lord is now a pork pie On next year’s calendar from Greggs While our angels the nurses, make ends meet In the food banks on poverty street
Tony Hitchcock is a valued member of the Read to Write poetry community. His poem Thirteen and a half ways of looking through Eyes can be found here
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Scrooge’s Best Christmas Ever - Geoff Lowery
December, and it’s nearing that ‘C’ word again, not going to dec up, or go to Meadow Hell, Christmas enthusiasm, flushed down the drain, not bedazzled by some non-existent Santa’s spell. I visit my Granddaughters and have to pretend, “How does Santa get into your house Grandad?” I can’t bring myself to say, “all lies and overspend”, I don’t want to be seen as grumpy or downright sad. Back home and I can be my Ebenezer self, It’s Christmas day and again, on my own, I must do something, maybe dress as an elf, perhaps not. Bored, I drive around the town. I’ve got it, I’ll treat a down and out to a meal, can’t see any, and the fast-food shops are shut, even Mac-a Dees, so no greasy meal deal, It’s cold, quiet, and in a frosty gloomy rut. Crawling, trawling, I’m losing interest, Netherhall, Copley, Avenue Road, I’m going home, I’m tired, I’ve done my best, It’ll be Christmas dinner alone, at my abode. Then I see a frail and frozen little twig, she stood there, shivering, puppy dog eyes, I came to a stop, she came over, dancing a jig, she looked me over, weighting a potential prize. Listen, would you like a free Christmas dinner, she checked around, eyeing me up and down a bit, she jumped in, looking like she’d found a winner, I drove home, pointed to settee – “please sit”. Vegetarian dinner prepared and ready, gave her some Sherry, said her name was Stella, I had a couple of beers but took it steady, strangely, she dropped out, she had no fella. Stood in front of gas fire, skirt in the air, I tried not to look, but guess what, I failed, meal placed on the table, simple Christmas fare, rushed it a wee bit, in case she bailed. After the feast, we found a softer seat, “It was nice, but I’d have preferred some meat.” She’s in my house to this very day, and the best is – I don’t have to pay!
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Father Christmas Gets Arrested - Geoff Lowery
He was like Humpty Dumpty in a red shell suit, with a hat supporting his local team to boot. Sneaking into houses unseen at night, his only job as he wasn’t too bright. Knocking back ale and eating the pies, “I’m Father Christmas” - a right pack of lies! Breathalyser says too drunk to drive, waiting for Black Mariah to arrive. You’re being evasive and looking quite rough, and your vehicle’s full of stolen stuff! There’s a crowbar, a house breaking tool, “That’s ‘cos I’m a Scally from Liverpool.”
Geoff Lowery is a Doncaster Poet. He has published two volumes of poetry The Wreck on the Beach and Laughter Lines, for people who don’t like poetry.
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Christmas - Chris Matthews
Children sing now 'Silent Night', Huddled beneath their bedsheets tight. Remember all that's past this year, Imaginary Santa's in dreams appear. Soon to come an infant’s birth, Remember mothers this time of mirth. May their wishes all come true, Amid this festive retinue. Share goodwill and Christmas cheer, Save those close you feel dear. Christmas comes but once a year, Hold a thought for those not here. Relish now what you've got, Impart some time for those who've not. Simple things as presents give, Take not for granted, this life we live. Make new friends, take old ones back, Amoral is the gold we stack. Share good will and Christmas cheer, Send this now to all who hear. Come one and all, it's Christmas time, Hear joyful song, my love is thine. Revel now in God's neat sight, Immerse yourself in his sweet light. Sing with others far and wide, The joy of season, this Yule tide. Merriment with all abound, As carollers take their songs around. Share goodwill and Christmas cheer, So all salute, yet one more year.
Chris Matthews has been writing poetry and song lyrics since his school years . He finds nothing more exciting than to bring words to life.
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Man of Frost - John Beal
Jack, I tell you, Jack a man of frost – of all trade winds and winter sun. This man of frost – a giant amongst the throng, where he does not belong. Belied, I tell you, belied a frost settled grimly in the winds and cold sun of winter. This frost a s settled on shoulders strong against the throng, where he does not belong. Escape, I say to you, escape from winters frosted-fingers slip, escape this palsied, evil grip, of winter winds and settling snow, that swells upon the throng, where he does not belong. Thaw, I say to you, thaw that frosted heart and eye, glimpse six-fold star, in blackened void, drifting in windless space where winter winds do not belong, he escapes the wearisome throng. Adrift, the silent answer, adrift he shelters not on shoreline, but escapes across the iceberg cliffs, and into far safe harbour, so strong against the throng, where he does not belong. Free, at last he cries, free, the turmoil blizzard dancing spree, and witchcraft nightfall flee, the turbulent bestial horde, and wing free from this throng, where he does not belong.
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Doves - John Beal
In steel city cathedral peace falls as pastel delight pale dove wings blessed Awestruck people stare in wonder silent, enraptured While tombs sigh releasing the breath of the turning world Toward armistice while elsewhere battle rages Doves circle magic stops bullets flight
John Beal runs the Mexborough Branch of the Read to Write Poetry Group - He was the first poet to be featured in sixty odd poems.
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Sprouts are Versatile - John Wolf
You can drown 'em in gravy, squash 'em under spuds, stack 'em in a pile, sprouts are versatile. Compost 'em to grow new veg, Sandbag 'em to to stop floods, Send 'em out to space, Plant 'em to grow new woods. * You can scoff 'em in a sarny, turn 'em into slurry, digest them in a hurry; even make sprout curry! Sprout and raspberry ripple, Place one on each nipple, Streak a golden mile After downing festive tipple. You can embalm them for posterity, toast 'em for hope and charity, they're full of minerals and taste, sprouts are everkind, they live for Christmas! Like pyramids of Ferrero Rocher, Turned into modern art. I've tried sprouts more than once And they always make us fart. Like gifts, individually wrapped, they produce quite a blast, memories made by sprouts though, do tend to last! And all you thought they were, Is Ninja flatulates that lurk, Rather than green goddesses Putting your digestive system to work. Sprouts are the embodiment of Christmas, the perpetual gift of giving, a reminder that while we're trumping, we are definitely living. Did you hear that fruity beauty? He's lifted a leg, blown off, Let one fly, let one rip, Done a trouser-cough ... No he hasn't the sprouts have liberated him to be less possessive with bum gas. She loves a fart, our lass. Dad doesn't. Stiff upper lip. Mum likes to sneak one off, Pretend its a sofa-creak. I prefer a massive rasper, like The Phantom Raspberry Blower of Old London Town; Leaves absolutely no doubt when he's been around. Wooppee cushion, best ever gift. None of that would be possible if sprouts weren't plated and downed. See, you're laughing - that's what its about: The Spirit of Christmas, Togetherness. Baby cheeses. Travelling Zoroastri from afar, camel-sore, bearing gifts, three wise men: Goldmember, Silver-Now-50% off, and Frank Muir. Who wrote the harp theme tune currently sung by seraphim? Don't Look Back In Manger, I heard you say. Course it was Noel. Liam says it was him. *some poetic license has been applied
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Snow Jam - John Wolf
Christmas 2050. Cars snowed in on a freeway, still queueing. Snow, drifts from shoulder to bonnet. Envelops a world in white, hazes hoar-grey, silent horns honk in monochrome. Creak, crack, crunch. Ankle tendons. It's too cold for the zombies this far north, Too cold for car batteries; flat as a beat cop's feet. Post-apocalyptic art. Someone has to chronicle this, in case we don't make it back to the old world. Grumbling about electric cars and gas prices, digressive dumbing-down of language and education, rug-headed vile slugs of dictators, debating which TV shows to rent.
John Wolf is a Performance poet and story writer whose recent poetry collection - Heroes, was published by Glasshead Press.
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Adam & Eve - Philip Dawson Hammond
“A second Adam to the fight and to the rescue came” (Inspired by the hymn ‘Praise to the Holiest in the Height’ (1865) by John Henry Newman) I found him on the street, said he was a child of God With a begging bowl and a blanket and scruffy looking dog He was preaching of redemption and the road that I should take So I bought him a take-out coffee and a slice of cinnamon cake. He said his name was Adam and I lied that mine was too Then took him for a beer and dog, a bone on which to chew His gentle voice so soft yet clear, I never missed a word He spoke with such authority as seldom ever heard. I asked if he was homeless and he smiled and shook his head, Assumed he was an immigrant although he never said But something drew me to him and the tales he had to tell As though somehow he'd saved my soul descending into hell. So I bought another round until I heard the time bell call: Last orders at the bar please, and the stranger blessed us all By raising arms above his head, then I saw at second glance Bandages unravelling from the palms of both his hands And then I witnessed something strange like never seen before: The dog and bone had changed into a pile of fresh manure And though I didn't make a scene I thought perhaps I should When I saw is pint of beer had turned into a pint of blood I found him on the street, said he was a child of God With a begging bowl and a blanket and scruffy looking dog This stranger who’d already left, I never saw him leave But traced the donkey’s footprints home in snow that Christmas Eve.
Philip Dawson Hammond has written a number of volumes of poetry. He will be featured in Sixty Odd Poets in the New Year.
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Dark Procession - Gary Wells
They march in dark procession From the Churches caroled song Out, without possession, To the chatter and the throng Their blackened faces grimace As pagan dance transforms They're celebrating Christmas A dark Morris to perform Hot toddy is next consumed To keep the cold at bay The clatter of the stick resume The procession is underway Then out come the torches Lit for the children's glee Outward from church porches The congregation flee The flaming torch's paganity And music fills their souls Marching with clatter and calamity Whilst sparks fly, flames roll Songs are sung of wrens and kings Holly and ivy carried high The songs that this tradition sings Join flames and spiral to the sky A merry Mummer is next performed Coming seasons celebrated In the alehouse now transformed Dark Morris is inebriated
Gary Wells is alive and well
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Excellent selection box, well done Mike